“It’s hard to impress me with chicken,” Owen said.
I laughed. “I still don’t understand how you could possibly dislike chicken.”
“It’s disgusting.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re lying to yourself.”
He just shrugged like it wasn’t a criminal opinion. We were in our usual booth at Pat’s Pizza, still in our Maine hoodies, smelling like sweat and Gatorade. This was our post-game spot. It always had been, even back when we were kids.

Now we were starting for the ice hockey team at the University of Maine, somehow. Playing on the first line. And tomorrow, we were playing in the national championship game. At home. At the Alfond.
I shook my head. “Remember mites? When you wore goalie pads two sizes too big.”
“Style points,” he grinned.
“You fell trying to tie your skates.”
“Character development.”
I laughed again, but my stomach was still turning. The game tomorrow wasn’t just a game. It was everything. For us, for the town, for the younger versions of ourselves who used to shovel the pond just to get more ice time.

Game day was chaos. Packed arena. Cowbells. Faces painted. Signs. My little brother had one that said “GO BLUE!”

We were playing Minnesota. Big team. Fast. They were all over us in the first period, and it seemed like we simply couldn’t escape their presence. They scored the first goal shortly after the beginning of the game, an absolute missile from the blue line. We were lucky they only got one. However, we eventually tied it up in the second period after Davey scored off of a deflection. They responded almost immediately with another goal. Then, Jace buried one with under 30 seconds left in the second period. The game was now even 2–2 heading into the third.

Every shift felt like it could be our last. Legs burning. Chest pounding. Coach put our line out with thirty seconds left after a timeout.

Owen leaned over and said, “Last shift?”

I nodded.

Faceoff in their zone. Jace won it back to our defenseman. Quick pass to me on the wall. I looked, waited half a second, then whipped it across the ice to Owen, who was already cutting through defenders.

Ten seconds.
I sprinted down the middle, calling for it with the little voice I had left.
He sent it back. Tape to tape.
I ripped it.
Bar down.
3–2.

I don’t remember hearing the horn. Just the noise of the crowd after. Pure chaos. Owen tackled me, the team crashed in, fans were losing their minds. We had done it!
We did what no UMaine hockey team had done in over 25 years! We were the 2025 NCAA Ice Hockey National Champions! Better yet, we did it in our hometown!

Later that night, after the photos and the yelling and the trophy lift, we ended up back at Pat’s. Just us. Everything quiet for once.
The championship medal felt heavy around my neck.
Owen stared down at the chicken tenders in front of him like they were cursed.
“You gonna admit it?” I asked. “You like chicken.”
He picked one up, took a dramatic bite.
Chewed. Swallowed.
“…Still disgusting,” he said.
I snorted. “Liar.”
But he was smiling.
So was I.